I’ve written plenty here about my recent relationship. Full disclosure: while it technically ended three months ago it has been one of those marathon breakups, a classic case of two-people-who-just-won’t-let-each-other-get-on-with-it already – despite what both parties know is best.
So when this muddle went into its final stretch last week, I was surprised to find myself devastated. On Sundays when my kids are with their dad and I would have otherwise spent with my ex-boyfriend, I instead engaged in unseemly behavior like walking around the streets of Manhattan while bawling uncontrollably, listening to John Legend on a loop and reading the Wikipedia page on Carrie and Mr. Big. Not only was all this embarrassing, it was also incongruous with the events at hand. Something else was at play.
So I called one of my best friends. I’ve known Kirsten for 12 years, and even though she lives on the other side of the country, we remain very close and she knows all my shit. Kirsten did what a good friend does: she listened. As I talked and sobbed and blubbered and talked some more it all came out. Besides the end of my relationship, my mom has been unwell. My mom, who adores my kids second only to their parents. As my children and their needs as people grow, it seems that our circle of people shrinks – and the pressures of being a single mother mount. I am just one person responsible for two human beings. It feels like too much.
“We’ve all watched you over the past few years be so strong and amazing,” Kirsten said. “But I said to myself, ‘I hope this girl can find time to process it all. Because sooner or later it will catch up with her.’”
It has caught up with me. When my husband fell off that cliff three years ago, I slipped into survival mode: I jutted my jaw, made sure the kids and my business and the money and the divorce and the house were all in order. Trust me, there were plenty of late night crying fits and trips to therapists and a wonderful support group for loved ones of brain injury victims. But I’m not sure I fully felt the gravity of my loss – our loss. The loss my whole family suffered.
Now, three years’ worth of grief has come knocking. If I have any say in the matter, it is allowed in mostly on Sundays (though now that the flood gates have opened, all bets are off). I may see a movie, go for a bike ride or tackle a household project or two. But those are my days to be sad. To indulge in the emotion and grief and healing that has eluded me. Eluded us.
Funny thing, how empathy blooms. At bedtime after coming home from her dad’s on Sunday, I laid next to Helena in her twin bed. She was riled up after the transition, which is not unusual, but it spiraled into something else. “Why can’t our family be like other families?” she cried. I worry I dismiss the grief my kids might feel over the divorce. After all, Lucas wasn’t even born when we separated – Helena not yet 2. “It’s always Helena, Lucas, Daddy – and Mommy separate. Or Helena, Lucas, Mommy – Daddy separate. I want us to be like Eleanor’s family.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. So I held her head in the crook of my neck and listened and let her cry and cry. “Thank you for telling me how you feel,” I said. “It’s important to get it out. Because sooner or later it will catch up with you.”
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